Chapter 1
Everything Ends
William
December, Off Season
The simulator room door hisses open, and EJ pokes his head in, ready to take my seat. Eighteen years old, and already faster than half the grid just from comparing his simulator times to real race times. Also taller.
Wait.
Did this guy have a growth spurt or something? He’s taller than me now.What do kids eat these days? I want some of that!
His sandy-blond hair sticks up like he's been electrocuted, and I struggle not to crack up at what he did when he took off his balaclava a couple of hours ago.
"You're still here? I thought you had that concert." He takes a seat on the small bench next to our lockers and grabs a towel.
I grab my backpack. "Yeah, lost track of time. I'm going now."
"Sick. Tell Felix I said hi." He flashes that child-like grin. "But not too late, right? We've got testing for the rest of the week."
I ruffle his hair as I pass. "Yes,Mom."
The team has a much different vibe these days. Lighter. More focused.
Nicholas is gone—thank fuck—replaced by EJ, who soaks up knowledge like a sponge instead of complaining about the car while popping bottles in Monaco. The kid's raw, hungry, and genuinely grateful to be here. Makes me feel ancient at twenty-five, but I'll take it. He’s like a little brother to me now.
My phone buzzes. It’s Felix.
Where the hell are you? Band starts in 30. I'm the one being dragged to this and I arrived earlier than you, dude!
I text back one-handed while pushing through the exit doors.
Coming. Traffic.
Move your ass, Foster.
The grimy side door looks like it leads to nowhere—just a rusted metal slab wedged between a defunct textile factory, and a greasy shop with health code violations I don't want to think about. When I arrive, Felix leans against the brick wall, scrolling through his phone, his face ghostly in the blue light. I could spot him from a mile away. Black leather jacket despite the warm night, blond, wavy hair perfectly styled, even for a place where no one gives a shit. This guy could be a model if he wanted.
"Took you long enough," he says without looking up.
"Traffic was shit." I bump his shoulder with mine. "Miss me?"
He pockets his phone and gives me a once-over. "Nice shirt. Very original."
I glance down at my faded Emporium of Souls tee. The band has hit it big and went from the underground concert venues to now headlining music festivals and going on a world tour. Their rise in fame in just a few months is impressive. A couple of lads from Manchester blowing everyone’s minds with their hardcore rock and emotional lyrics. Their merch has always been to my taste—not that I’m picky about it—so I wear these shirts everywhere.
"Says the guy who looks like he raided a teenage goth's closet. I mean, I know you're an EDM type of guy, but this is… You look like you googled 'how does a metalhead dress' and just went with whatever was in the first article that appeared. Surprised you even had anything black in your wardrobe."
The playful jab hangs there without the usual counterattack.Something's off.Before I can press, the door swings open, belching out a wave of sound, sweat, and cigarette smoke.
The basement venue hits all your senses at once. Bass so heavy, it rattles your teeth. Air thick enough to chew. Lights that strobe and flash, turning everything into stop-motion violence. Brick walls covered in band stickers, graffiti, and what might be dried blood or spilled beer—or both.
We navigate through the crowd, and the best thing is that here, no one cares who we are. Here, we can be whoever we want. No fear of being judged. It’s liberating.
The band on stage tears into their set with equal parts precision and violence. The vocalist, shirtless and covered in sweat and tattoos, screams into the mic with a ferocity that splits the air and ear drums. It's brutal yet surgical, just like a perfect qualifying lap.
We approach the bar at the back, and I grab a beer, handing it to Felix. He takes it without really looking, eyes focused on somewhere in the distance.
